


Today, Yesterday, Tomorrow

by Demidea



Series: The Dragon Master [4]
Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: Action! (ish), Adventure! (they're on a boat!), M/M, Romance! (if you squint), dragon rider au, time to throw some Feelings in this mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 17:10:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11086155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demidea/pseuds/Demidea
Summary: Can you regret betraying someone if the betrayal was made before you met them? Before you bedded them? Before you cared for them? And does it matter if you betrayed them if you both would more likely to die before it was revealed?Khadgar knew when he took this mission it would be impossible to pull off, but he hadn't anticipated the leap from "knew then" to "experiencing now." It's really too late to back out now, though, and considering all he's learning of Anduin Lothar, Khadgar isn't sure backing out is an option he would take even if he could.





	Today, Yesterday, Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Don't mind me, just slogging along at the three thousand WIPs I made for myself.

Khadgar’s chin rests on the salt-air-seasoned wood of the stern railing, the tip of his nose to his chin pressed to his forearms to keep warm. He’s staring at the white lips of the water curling over to rush back into the space the frigate carved, but his mind is on other visions. A string of memories. A stack of events that led him to his current predicament.

Lothar had taken him to bed again last night, and while neither of them talked about their arrangement, this morning Lothar kissed him so sweetly he thought his chest would cleave in half, exposing his heart. Is he being naive? To think someone caring for him physically would also care emotionally? He must be, because there’s no way the few weeks they spent at sea would convince a man like Lothar, a dragon rider searching for his son, to care for Khadgar, a member of the King’s Fleet, just barely into manhood himself.

But he can’t shake the feeling of Lothar’s hand on his chest and back, smoothing and holding him tight, or how the other’s beard tickled as it dragged along after the hot, wet pleasure of his mouth. He can feel the memory of that mouth from this morning pressing tenderly along the purposefully shaped ridges of scar tissue on his left forearm. That sensation was burned so deeply in his memory now, just as deeply as the day Medivh first inscribed the mark in his flesh. Just the memory of Lothar’s lips mouthing the pattern is enough to make his spine quiver.

Khadgar sighs. Regardless of their relationship, his duty is clear. Next to him on the 31st post of the railing, aligned with the figurehead, is the very same mark on his arm. Below it, so faint the untrained eye would miss it, is another mark. Khadgar’s eyes glow blue, and the second mark flares to life. He keeps the energy steady, until it pulses once with acknowledgement and dies off. Behind him, he hears the fizzle-hum of Medivh’s magic.

“Well met, Khadgar.” Khadgar mumbles some greeting to the same, barely meeting his mentor’s eye. Medivh is only there in illusion, a trick of the sea air and light he had yet to teach Khadgar, but it’s a strong illusion that conveyed scrutiny just as well as it would if he were physically present. “What news?”

“We’ve reached the shore. Lothar spends his days scouting the land. He doesn’t say much about what he finds, but I can gather he doesn’t like it.”

“As could be expected. You are technically one of the people hunting him.” He sounds weary, which is enough to drag Khadgar’s attention to him. Medivh looks tired, stretched thin. His robes are immaculate, but their arrangement, the way the bunch and fall, seems hasty. “Has he mentioned any details? What little he may say could still prove invaluable.”

Khadgar thought back, to the previous evening. Larial landed lightly, Lothar sliding down her scales before she even hit the deck. He’d taken off his gloves by the time Khadgar approached from below deck, so Khadgar could feel that they were puffy and chilled when Lothar took his face and kissed him hard. Lothar hadn’t said anything, and Khadgar hadn’t asked, but he noticed the grim lines in Lothar’s forehead, the tightness around his lips every time he looked ashore.

_ “There are too many dragons for the land to support.” Lothar said as they clean Larial’s scales. “We may have to stick to fishing.” _

“He indicated there was an overpopulation issue.” Khadgar says instead, just as his mentor starts to look irate at the lack of an immediate answer. The irritation is quickly replaced by deep thought.

“That would explain some behaviors.” Medivh agrees.

“And-” Khadgar has to pause, hoping Medivh can’t see the blush, because this information was pressed into his mouth with heated lips while eager hands pushed him up against a wall and searched through his clothes for skin.  _ I should set a watch _ , Lothar had said,  _ they’ll sense Larial for miles. _ But Khadgar had smiled and taken Lothar’s hand and pressed his cheek into it just to watch the rider’s resolve crumble. “Apparently the presence of a tamed dragon is distinguishable from the local population, and stirs up unrest.”

Medivh frowns, scrutinizing Khadgar. For one sickening minute it’s as if Medivh could see Lothar’s hands and mouth written in memory over Khadgar’s face and body. Did he still smell of Lothar? Could Medivh smell in this state? “Does the dragon of his give off a discernable aura?”

Oh. His mentor was just processing information. He hopes his relief isn’t as visible as his embarrassment. “Nothing magical. She definitely has a physical presence.”

“It must be uncomfortable, to host such a beast.” Khadgar doesn’t know how to respond. Medivh would be correct, if Larial still regarded him with hostility. Somehow, admitting her acceptance of him felt more dangerous. After some silence, Medivh must take his lack of response as resilience. Medivh asks, hesitant. “He’s not cruel to you, is he?” 

“Lothar? No.” Strange, that this is the first time Khadgar considered the possibility that his mission might put him at the mercy of another’s abuse. Hours into knowing Lothar, he’d been certain that while his manners are rough, the dragon rider was nothing if not honorable. “Not at all.”

Surely not as thorough an answer as his mentor would have liked, but he’s helpless as how to explain himself.

“You’re not having second thoughts about waylaying the King?” Medivh asks as if running through a list of possibilities rather than of true doubt, though the severity of the claim is enough to make Khadgar leap to correct it.

“No, not at all. Our duty is to inform his decisions. This is the best way to learn what we need to do so.”

It’s not a topic they haven’t tread through together already, but Khadgar can understand the need for the reassurance that they were both on the same page. What they were doing now can very much be seen as obstruction of the King’s orders, and his own hesitance did not inspire faith in his commitment to their shared danger.

“It is almost over,” Medivh says, as if trying to comfort though his words inspire the opposite. “Report again if Lothar reveals anything new, or if something comes up.”

“Yes, Guardian.” As he watches Medivh’s image melt away, he feels the turmoil billow in his gut. What was he going to do when this was over?

 

The roast still smells tempting, no hint of rot. Then again, the king’s shipwrights were known to have their own magic, he wouldn’t be surprised if one of them involved preventing spoilage. He recovers the fat stores, just in time for them to slosh against the lid as the the galley floor drops under him. It was still midday, Lothar wasn’t usually back until closer to dusk. Khadgar darts to the staircase, and is cut off in the doorway by Lothar in full rider gear.

“Get the ship away from shore!” His shout is muffled by his mask. The command is easy enough, just the turn of a rudder, but over Lothar’s shoulder it becomes clear he has other worries. Larial’s wings flare wide between his masts, her teeth bared, jaw stretched in a clear threat. Large shadows cut over them, like they’re being circled, and from above he hears shrieks.

Khadgar steps forward, he needed their bearings, only to ram into a solid, armored shoulder. Disbelief sparks to anger, but Lothar doesn’t budge, staring at him through the eye slit.

“What?”

“It’s dangerous out there.” Was there a hint of a waver in Lothar’s voice?

“Are you crazy?” Khadgar shoves on the shoulder in his way. Ineffectual, but enough to emphasize his current mindset. “ _ I’m the King’s Ship, I can defend myself.” _

Through his magic, the cannons grind to life, swinging to point straight up, blue light spilling through the lip from the bore. Larial emits a startled warble though none are pointed at her. Lothar whips around, and Khadgar takes the opportunity to push past him. There are three on his stern; ragged, wretched looking drakes. Next to Larial, their scales are dull and patchy, the membranes of their wings frayed. They seemed wider around their abdomens with more body and short necks, the weight of which had them dropping farther between wing beats. Maneuvering would be harder for them, then, and he’s hit faster targets.

The sea around them protests their movement, fighting him uncharacteristically. It’s not until he notices two of the drakes, one on the stern, the other on the bow, had their jaws unhinged and were dripping fire into the water around his ship. They were boiling the sea.

The ferals also took notice when Khadgar prepped the cannons, taking care to scatter and reduce the time they lingered. He locks the cannons at a ready position, automatically aimed at three main defensive positions.

“What would you have me do?” Lothar asks. In Khadgar’s peripheral, the rider is tense, his eyes never leaving Larial. The golden’s head swung back and forth in distress, likely flighty from her proximity to Khadgar’s magic.

“Can you chase them away from above?” He can feel the heat of the water warping the wood of his keel while threatening to melt the binding pitch. He can keep it together, but he doesn’t want to risk expending that much energy this early when he doesn’t know how long they can expect a chase. “To behind us, preferably.”

In his peripherals, he sees the curved teeth of Lothar’s helm melt into his mask, but he can’t eke out an expression. “Right. I’ll go strike up a conversation with them, then.” Behind them, the smaller of the ferals dared to fly overhead, low enough it had to draw its wings into its body to avoid tangling with the sails, it’s heavy, pitted tail aimed for Larial’s head. Lothar darts off, jumping on the railing to launch off, aiming for Larial’s back, yelling all the way. “Because they seemed so reasonable before.”

“Just go!” Khadgar waves at his back as if the rider could see or hear him. Hadn’t Lothar been in battle before? Not that Khadgar really had time to think about it, he can count a single shadow ahead where there had been two, and only registered what had happened to the second when he sees the large patch of black gliding directly towards him across the deck.

“Above!” he shouts, beating Larial’s roar by a scant minute. She, with Lothar on her back, had glided around the sails, and forced a hard bank to cut off the approaching feral. They face off midair, watching the other with bared teeth without doing much more. It seemed to be a complicated exchange of threatening growls with an emphasis on keeping their wings out of the other’s reach.

The shrieks of the others tear Khadgar back to what he’s supposed to be doing: getting them away. He turns his attention to the bow, the foremost cannons following his direction until he can lock onto the two other ferals currently trying to boil his ship. Apparently, he’s in good company, they had stopped dripping fire, their jaws hinged back into place, to watch their comrade’s standoff against Larial and Lothar.

For a second, Khadgar considers not firing. The force would be enough to counter the slowed inch forward his ship had built in the seconds since the ferals stopped boiling the water. But the moment passes quickly and his eyes flare to life, the blue glow of his power gathering in his palms in tandem with the light building in the barrels of his cannons. His magic hits the flashpoint of gunpowder, and he feels the loss of energy as two masses of blue-infused iron sail through the air and hit their marks square in the chest. Impact throws them back, the initial burst of magic throwing sparks back but otherwise keeping the iron cannonball lodged against the beast’s chest until the second surge of magic can take root. Blue light glows from between the feral’s scales, and when it pours from its mouth Khadgar knows he’s scored a direct hit. They fall into the sea without another sound.

Above him, he hears a screech of pain. Fearing for Larial his head snaps up, just in time to see the larger of the ferals, the only surviving member of the group, pulling its wings to its body as it dives for the ship. For Khadgar. It lands on the deck gracelessly, its weight thrown against the mizzenmast. Khadgar hears and feels the weight tilt the ship, and the tension against the mast. The creature on his deck shakes itself out of its daze, turning head to hiss and swipe at a hovering Larial, then proceeds to use its forelegs the climb up the mast, rip a sail down with a snap of its jaws and teeth.

Khadgar’s frozen, he can feel the protesting beam and the loss of the sail, but he can also see and smell the feral dragon. It roots him to his spot, his heart beating into his ears, unable to come up with any response to such a fiasco.

As he stares, a tiny black figure drops from above, whooping a battle cry, and lands on the feral’s back. Lothar. The dragon rider would fight this beast, and he’d likely keep fighting until he was dead or it was, and with this realization, Khadgar decided he would, too.

He taps into the connection to the ship. Every dragon of the three had responded to the sight of his magic, he saw no reason for now to be different. Crouching, he places a glowing palm to the deck, and feels. He notices what’s missing first, the snapped rigging and splintering mast, the loss of binding pitch and damaged veneer to the bow, the torn planks of the deck. The first thing he does is bolster the mast, trying to keep it attached to avoid it falling into the water and creating drag. 

Lariel hovers close by, hissing and snapping her displeasure but unwilling to land or risk damaging the ship. Whether by instinct or self-preservation she hadn’t landed, something Khadgar was grateful for when he realizes just how little freeboard he has to work with. Already they’re rocking dangerously close to dipping under the waterline what with the way the feral was shifting weight, trying to sink its teeth into Lothar. From this vantage point, Khadgar can’t tell how he’s still hanging on, there’s no saddle or straps or any of the other methods Lothar normally employs on Larial.

“I could use some help up here!”

“I’m working, I’m working! Hang on!”

“Easy for you to say!”

With an extra nudge to his reserve, his power saturates the wood and metal of the beam until glowing blue veins snake their way up, under the dragon’s claw. He sees rather than feels freed rigging swaying with his ship, and though it takes a moment to reconnect to them, he’s able to push his magic into the rigging. When he first learned magic under Medivh’s watchful eye, the magus showed him how to infuse certain sails to create a rigidity the heavy sailcloth wouldn’t have normally, and how that would change the sails shape and affect how it behaved in response to the wind’s push. He applies that here, somewhat sloppily as he’s not familiar with trying to command loose ropes that don’t reconnect to the frigate in a closed loop. A handful of lines flare out, but a few whip at the feral, their tips sparking with the excess magic.

The effect is immediate, the feral screams and pushes off. Water sloshes over the deck, draining away as the water inevitably pushes back with equal force. Lothar falls to the deck, whatever hold he had finally giving out. The rider manages to land, but only barely as the ship rushes up to meet him. He’s slow to rise, tight and resistant to even the chaos of the frigate returning to its normal buoyancy now it was free a dragon.

Khadgar takes a step to meet him, stopping when the rider’s head snaps to stare at him. It’s like when they met all over again, hostile and wild, but the moment passes and the fight drains from Lothar’s shoulders. ”Don’t worry about me, just get us away from shore.”

Letting his hand drop to his side, he frowns but reconnects to the ship. His hull would be fine, only sustaining superficial damage an early visit to the shipyard would clear up. His mast is another story, but it’d hold for now. He adjusts what sails they had left to regain speed. Relief sinks through him like a stone, dragging down all his energy with it. “The dragon?”

“Larial’s got it.”

From behind, he picks up on the sound of thrashing water and wingbeats. Minutes pass, the wingbeats near. The last curl of dread dissipates in his chest when he see’s Larial’s gold scales. She touches down lightly, wings perked as if she expected to take off at a moment’s notice. She spots Lothar and shoves her snout at his chest, like she’s checking him for injury.

The thrashing behind them doesn’t stop. Khadgar takes a step and stops, partially because for whatever reason he can’t adjust to the rocking of his own ship, and partly due to Larial’s sudden stillness. Did she think him a threat? That seemed unreasonable given what they just went through. “The dragon?” he repeats.

Lothar’s lifted his helm but his expression is no less guarded. “She tore his wing. He’ll not be able to get airborn again.”

Now Khadgar does turn and look. Between them and shore, almost entire folded between the waves, is a dark form kicking up white froth. “So he’ll drown.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t know why he thinks he can do it. Doesn’t stop to even consider the possibility he didn’t have the energy left to, he simply makes the calculation, swivels a cannon, and fires one last shot. The moment the shot leaves the barrel of his cannon, he loses all feeling. The last thing he remembers before hitting the deck is blue light hitting the patch of white water, extinguishing both, and then there’s just the sea, dark and featureless, rocking the dead to sleep under the darkness of all her secrets.


End file.
